


Path of Memories

by tirsynni



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Not RotK-compliant, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2693858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rather than stay at Rivendell or go to the Undying Lands, Bilbo agrees to go home with the Dwarves during the War of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Path of Memories

Even with the great distance parting Bilbo Baggins from the Ring, he felt it clawing at him. He felt its pull like a mithril chain dragging at his lungs. Each pulse echoed within him like an extra heartbeat.

Gloin sat beside him as Bilbo stared in the direction of Mordor. Without a doubt, dear Frodo was close. Only the Dwarves came close to a Hobbit’s determination, whether it be searching for mushrooms or seeking to destroy a Dark Lord.

Now a Dwarf’s determination kept Gloin firmly at Bilbo’s side. “Soon, we will leave for home,” the Dwarf repeated, uncaring or oblivious of Bilbo’s amusement. “Leave this place. You still need to meet my wife!”

It wasn’t like Bilbo had never intended to return to Erebor, he mused, staring over the trees. Indeed, when Dwalin, Nori, and Bofur had escorted him from the Shire, that was his end destination.

Yet…

“When the roads are clearer,” Bilbo agreed absently, eyes still south to Frodo and the Ring.

Yet a part of his heart, unclaimed by either the Dark Lord’s madness or his pained love for his nephew pulled Bilbo east.

“When the roads are clearer,” Bilbo repeated, “and there are fewer orcs.” And Uruk-hai or whatever else spawned in the darkness of the south. He hoped that Frodo would be safe and yet…

Those seemed to be his favorite words for the last few decades. And yet. He had tried to put his conflict to paper on multiple occasions but failed every time. Since Rivendell, since leaving the Ring, Bilbo had burned every attempt and scattered the ashes.

“Everyone will be pleased to see you again,” Gloin continued, a spot of cheer in his voice sadly lacking from Rivendell as of late. War would do that, Bilbo supposed. “They will rejoice at your arrival. I know Dain would be honored at your return, and Bombur will eagerly prepare a feast!”

Bilbo smiled wistfully and watched a flock of birds fly above Rivendell, slow and graceful as they rode the wind. Flying home, perhaps? As if going home, the simple act of ending one’s travels and settling one’s head, was enough to heal any ill. No matter the fierceness of the journey or the depth of the wounds, it was easy to dream of laying down one’s head and sleeping it all away.

As Gloin described how many Dwarves needed to carry Bombur now, Bilbo turned his gaze away from the birds to the Elves below. A corner of his mind idly composed ballads to their beautiful dress and grace even as the rest of him noted how few of them remained. Into the West, they went, going to the Undying Lands with the same solemn poise as they attended funerals. Did they consider the Undying Lands home? Rivendell? Neither? Both?

“I believe we’ll have to leave sooner rather than later, my friend,” Bilbo murmured, feeling eyes burning into him. He looked up to see Elrond watching him from another balcony. Since learning of the nature of Bilbo’s Ring, it felt like Elrond searched him for any sign of the scars it left behind. He knew Elrond’s plans to take Bilbo to the Undying Lands, to see if they could heal those wounds.

Bilbo closed his eyes as Gloin continued on, stuttering over Oin and moving gamely onto Nori. Since traveling with Bilbo, the thief had rarely moved far from Rivendell, terrorizing the Elves and bringing Bilbo different meats to “keep his strength up.” Aye, Nori would meet them, Gloin promised, and would help take Bilbo home.

Elrond held Bilbo’s gaze for a breath longer before leaving the balcony, slim dark form vanishing into the shadows. Bilbo imagined the weight on his brow, possibly more from Arwen than anything else. Ah, Arwen. He had written small stories about her and Estel, romantic, tragic little things.

He had burned those, too.

“Indeed, my friend,” Bilbo said aloud. He looked from the south to the east and back again. “I would love to see everyone again.”

xoxoxox

Upon returning to the Shire the first time, the cold echoes within the humble hobbit hole had mocked him. Bilbo had scurried to reclaim all of his items, many inherited from his mother. That endeavor took months, largely in part to Lobelia, and he never reclaimed everything. Still, when he succeeded to the best of his ability, Bilbo had stood in the middle of Bag End and waited. Then he had scurried again, lighting the fireplaces and candles. He had put on a pot of tea and made fresh scones in the oven. With the hobbit hole warmly lit and smelling soothing and sweet, Bilbo stopped and waited again.

If Dwarves were stone, then Hobbits were what grew around and on them. They were the grass, the trees, the flowers, the roots. Frodo came into Bilbo’s life like the spring, grounding him in a way he swore to Gandalf he didn’t need. The damned Wizard simply smiled and blew ships into the breeze.

Bilbo felt Frodo – and the Ring – travel farther and farther away even as he trudged east. He held his cane but admitted – if only to himself – that he used it less than he should. Not due to the weight of age, no…he recognized that now.

Ponies and wagons circled their small fire, Bofur and Nori arguing quietly but heatedly in the middle of it all. Sitting beside them, Gloin stared at his locket. Bilbo leaned against his cane and watched them.

“We may be fewer in number, Master Baggins,” Dwalin rumbled beside him, “but we are no less stalwart for it. We will get you home.”

Bilbo leaned both himself and his cane against a nearby tree. Both hands now free, he busied himself with his pipe and weed. “Oh, I never worried about that, not for a moment.”

Indeed, time and history had shown that entire armies were necessary to stop a Dwarf. Or a pesky little jewel. Still, Bilbo had found himself more sympathetic as of late.

Dwalin rested a heavy hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “It will be good to see you safe in our halls again,” he said quietly. “If I had been thinking clearly, I never would have let you leave. You fought for Erebor as fiercely as any Dwarf.”

His smoke rings were smooth and round, impressive as long as he wasn’t standing next to Gandalf. Through them, Bilbo saw the flickers of the flames from the campfire and the rising stars.

Beorn had supplied him with pipeweed, surprisingly sweet weed given the nature of the giver. Beorn had glared at the Dwarves but adored Bilbo, hugging him and calling him his little bunny. He remembered sitting beside Thorin, sharing a pipe Thorin himself had whittled. Bilbo had never shared that memory with Frodo. Those moments had been put to paper and then quickly to flame.

“I don’t know what I would have done if you tried,” Bilbo lied.

Dwalin grunted and crossed his arms. They watched their companions, still arguing around the campfire. Bilbo heard his name amidst the Khuzdul. He puffed another smoke ring into the air.

“Where are they now?” Dwalin asked, voice so quiet Bilbo felt more than heard the rumble of his words.

Unerringly, Bilbo pointed south.

xoxoxox

No stone giants this time, only foolish bandits and some scattered orcs, all of whom were furiously killed by the Dwarves before Bilbo could even consider drawing his new blade. Rather than soothe Bilbo, the lack of foes and the fury of his friends chilled him. Their path again carried them through Thrandruil’s forest, where they walked past the corpses of countless spiders and sharp-eyed Elves. The echoes of mocking songs and a father’s anxious grief accompanied them as surely as Thrandruil’s guards. Of Thrandruil himself, there was no sign.

Nori provided Bilbo with his new steel, as clearly of Dwarven make as Sting had been Elven. A wonderful gift with its own story, if Dwalin’s silent twitching had been an indication, but Bilbo knew he could provide it with no glorious story like he had Sting, Spidersbane initiated in blood and song.

Still, that knowledge didn’t weigh him down as he feared. Instead, the greater weight of the blade did, as did the familiar sound of the rushing river. Bofur kept a steady arm around Bilbo’s shoulders as an Elf guided their modest boat downstream. None of their Company had known of his inability to swim until years after the fact.

Ori had yelled so fiercely at him, Bilbo recalled, no longer seeing the white waters and haunting rocks. Ori then spent the evening apologizing. Balin had laughed so hard he spilled his ale all over his chest.

The next morning, they had departed for Moria. “We’ll be back,” Oin promised, “to escort you personally!”

Bofur squeezed Bilbo close, his whiskers tickling Bilbo’s cheek. “Almost home now, Bilbo,” he whispered, like he didn’t want the Elf to hear him.

Bilbo leaned into his warm and stared at the shore where he had once saved a bedraggled bunch of Dwarves. “Soon,” he agreed.

xoxoxoxo

The first time Bilbo had arrived at Laketown, Dale had been a dream and he had been too busy sniffling and coughing to realize that he was mere days from facing down a dragon. When Thorin wasn’t both planning for and celebrating their victory at Erebor, he had sat with Bilbo telling tales and shoving tea (almost literally) down Bilbo’s throat. Thorin told him of the glory of Erebor and Thror’s descent into madness. He sang to him and tried to braid Bilbo’s curls. Bilbo had thanked him by sneezing in his face.

After a long pause, Thorin had almost laughed himself sick.

Bilbo remembered Thorin’s body literally shaking with laughter as he and the Dwarves skirted past Dale now. Their guided had been summoned back to Mirkwood, and Bilbo heard whispers of Dol Guldur. When asked by Bilbo to go straight to Erebor, his friends obeyed, all but carrying him in their rush.

When he looked into the water at his own reflection, Bilbo thought he looked the same, wrinkles and white curls identical to when he had last arrived in Rivendell. Inside, though, was a different story. A band tightened around his heart with each passing day, a scraping and scratching in his chest tearing at him like something was fighting to free itself. He looked to the south and heard whispers, hungry and demanding.

“It won’t be long now,” he said aloud.

Bofur nodded eagerly, hat flopping on his head. “We’re almost home, Bilbo!”

Bilbo nodded and smiled.

xoxoxox

Bilbo and Company arrived at Erebor March 17, 3019, just in time to hear the battle cries. Bilbo stayed long enough to hear shouts about the Easterlings and the Riven Carmen before he slipped away from his friends. His last glimpse of him showed them arming themselves. Bofur caught his eye as he went, and Bilbo nodded once before vanishing in the crowd of Dwarves.

Even without his Ring, it was little work for Bilbo to evade the rush of Dwarves and make his way to the kitchens. He hobbled on his cane by the end, breathless for once in a way related to age and not to the growing, alien weight of the Ring.

Still, it was worth it to see Bombur light up. “Bilbo!” he shouted, and Bilbo laughed as he discovered the others had not been exaggerating about his friend’s size. When Bombur tried and failed to stand, Bilbo waved him down and hobbled over to Bombur’s stone bench. Around them, some of the Dwarves slowed in their food preparation but didn’t stop. Bilbo felt eyes on him but had stopped giving a damn about such things decades ago.

“Sit, sit, my friend!” he called, laughing. “I hope you don’t mind if I sit a spell with you! The journey here was long, and there are more steps than I remembered!”

A Dwarf with more of a scruff than a beard provided drink and food with a “Master Baggins” and a bow. Bilbo thanked him – her? – and ate while he caught up with Bombur. They talked about food and exchanged tips on pies as the shouts echoed through the halls and weapons clanked. At long last Bilbo thanked Bombur and hobbled away from the kitchen, a fresh bag of food hanging from one arm.

Bilbo looked for Bifur as he avoided clamoring Dwarves and ducked the occasional axe. Heart heavy with regret, Bilbo gave up and moved onto the next step of his journey: meeting his boys.

In the tombs, silence reigned, as solid and heavy as the stone itself. Bilbo had only visited the tombs once, immediately prior to his return to the Shire, but he had replayed the steps there in many a dream. The stomping of boots and rising calls to battle faded into the heavy silence.

“Too silent,” Bilbo declared, and his voice sounded old in its echoes, weary. _Stretched_ , he told Gandalf once. It grew truer with each step taken, none of them his. Still, this moment wasn’t his. “Neither of you were quiet a moment in your lives, not a one. Kili, you even talked in your sleep!”

The tombs were large but still smaller than his memory of them. They were technically two separate tombs but Bilbo saw where they were linked in the middle, his boys unable to let go even in death. They were smaller still than the grand tomb behind them, acting like honor guards. Bilbo ignored _that_ tomb for now.

He sat at the foot of the tombs and put down his bag of food. He then searched through his pockets for the last bit of his pipeweed and some carefully preserved mushrooms. Gently, Bilbo laid them down beside him.

“Not much,” he apologized, petting the stone. “I would have liked to make you flower crowns or even bring some flowers themselves.” He smiled wryly. “Maybe even a tea cozy. You boys liked that, although not as much as Bofur.”

Bilbo swallowed past the growing lump in his throat. It only made the ache in his chest worse.

“Remember that silly Ring of mine?” he asked softly. “It is causing an awfully big fuss right now. I think…I think you boys would have enjoyed seeing some of it, although not nearly all. Not nearly. But…you would have met Frodo.”

Bilbo had to stop to blink at the rising heat in his eyes. He swallowed again.

“I fear I failed you all in the end,” he continued, voice gone frail and shaky. “Silly little Hobbit. I would have…I would have…”

A strong hand clamped on Bilbo’s shoulder. He shrieked and tumbled backward, but someone caught him before he hit the stone. Heart racing painfully in his chest, Bilbo looked up to see Bifur’s concerned face.

“Oh,” Bilbo said faintly. He coughed and tried again. “Oh. Hullo! I was looking for you earlier.”

Bifur nodded to him and then at the large tomb. Bilbo stared at the intricate stone for a long moment.

“Oh,” he said again, so quietly he barely heard himself. “Ah, visiting?”

Bifur grunted and smacked his bicep, bringing his forearm sharply to his chest. He drew himself straight and tall, a warrior ready for battle. Bilbo bit his lip. “…oh. Well, thank you. For doing that.”

Bifur nodded once and then sat beside him, careful to avoid the pipeweed and mushrooms. Bilbo smiled wanly at him.

At long last, Bilbo dragged himself to his feet again, grabbing his bag of food and leaning on his cane. Bifur silently watched him as he limped to Thorin’s tomb. He collapsed in a heap at the bottom of it.

The Ring weighed on him still, but not as much as the Arkenstone, hidden in the stone in front of him. Gently, as if it would break, Bilbo laid a hand on the tomb.

“My apologies, my love, but I have nothing but myself to offer you,” Bilbo said. “I fear I exchanged Sting for a cane. My nephew Frodo holds Sting and the mithril shirt now. I hope they do him well.”

Bilbo inhaled deeply and stroked the cool stone. “All I have are my stories. I have been practicing for years on them, so you had better enjoy them.”

So for eight days he told stories as the battled raged on above and Bifur regularly fetched food and water below. Bilbo told Thorin about his journey home and how long it took him to reclaim his own belongings. He told him how he was officially declared deceased and how it took him weeks to refute it. He told him about the Shire and Frodo and his adventures with the other Dwarves.

Bilbo also told him about the Ring.

“It eats at me even now,” he confided at night, when only the barest of light lit the tomb and even Bifur slept. “I knew what it was. I _knew_ what it was and yet…and yet I almost attacked my beloved Frodo over it.”

Bilbo paused and kissed the cool stone. “I understand, my darling. I hope you know that.”

He told him about all the parts he kept from his book, about the pages he had burned. He whispered about how he never told Frodo about the night in Laketown, after Bilbo had recovered from his cold and before they left for the final leg of their trip. “But I think my boy knew…he was always so clever.”

On March 25, 3019, as Bilbo described Gimli and how he was a member of the same Company as _Legolas_ of all people, the band around his chest tightened to the point he couldn’t breathe. He gripped his cane but even that hurt. The band exploded inside of him, sending lightning shards from his head to his toes. Bilbo wheezed, too breathless to scream. In the distance, he heard Bifur shouting.

“Oh,” Bilbo said faintly. “I suppose it is over now, my love. Frodo destroyed the Ring.”

Done. Finally done. Bilbo leaned against his cane and panted for breath. Finally done and he felt so tired. It was like he had been skipping days’ worth of sleep and then suddenly craved it all at once.

“Thorin…” Bilbo whispered.

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo shook his head, the cobwebs slowly clearing. He pushed himself up by his cane and then turned around.

And stared.

Bilbo swallowed. He hobbled forward but with each step it became easier, until he finally threw aside his cane and sprinted. Thorin waited with arms wide open to catch him. Wrapping his arms around the Dwarf, Bilbo sobbed a laugh into the King’s shoulder.

“Welcome home, Bilbo.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by this gorgeous fanart (http://speakfriendandenter.tumblr.com/post/75964656220/dont-say-we-have-come-now-to-the-end-white) and by the information that apparently Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were intended to be Thorin's honor guards in the third draft of the Hobbit. It was also inspired by this post: the-nightwing-rises.tumblr.com/post/94987105527/have-you-thought-about-the-fact-that-bilbo-is-narrating


End file.
